“Missy have put on a temperate way of late days it do seem.  I most begin to think that cat-a-mountain of a bwoy ’s less in her thoughts than he was.  She ‘m larnin’ wisdom, as well she may wi’ sich a faither.”

“I doan’t knaw what to think,” answered Mr. Lyddon, somewhat gloomily.  “I ban’t so much in her confidence as of auld days.  Damaris Blanchard’s right, like enough.  A maid ’s tu deep even for the faither that got her, most times.  A sweet, dear gal as ever was, for all that.  How fares it, John?  She never names ’e to me, though I do to her.”

“I’m biding my time, neighbour.  I reckon ’t will be right one day.  It only makes me feel a bit mean now and again to have to say hard things about young Blanchard.  Still, while she ’s wrapped up there, I may whistle for her.”

“You ’m in the right,” declared Billy. “‘T is an auld sayin’ that all manner of dealings be fair in love, an’ true no doubt, though I’m a bachelor myself an’ no prophet in such matters.”

“All’s fair for certain,” admitted John, as though he had not before considered the position from this standpoint.

“Ay, an’ a darter’s welfare lies in her faither’s hand.  Thank God, I’m not a parent to my knowledge; but ‘tis a difficult calling in life, an’ a young maiden gal, purty as a picksher, be a heavy load to a honest mind.”

“So I find it,” said the miller.

“You’ve forbid Will—­lock, stock, and barrel—­therefore, of coourse, she ’s no right to think more of him, to begin with,” continued the old man.  It was a new idea.

“Come to think of it, she hasn’t—­eh?” asked John.

“No, that’s true enough,” admitted Mr. Lyddon.

“I speak, though of low position, but well thought of an’ at Miller’s right hand, so to say,” continued Mr. Blee; “so theer ’t is:  Missy’s in a dangerous pass.  Eve’s flesh be Eve’s flesh, whether hid under flannel or silk, or shawed mother-naked to the sun after the manner of furrin cannibals.  A gal ‘s a gal; an’ if I was faither of such as your darter, I’d count it my solemn duty to see her out of the dangers of life an’ tidily mated to a gude man.  I’d say to myself, ’Her’ll graw to bless me for what I’ve done, come a few years.’”

So Billy Blee, according to his golden rule, advised men upon the road they already desired to follow, and thus increased his reputation for sound sense and far-reaching wisdom.

“It’s true, every word he says,” declared John Grimbal.

“I believe it,” answered the miller; “though God forbid any word or act of mine should bring wan tear to Phoebe’s cheek.  Yet, somehow, I doan’t knaw but you ’m right.”

“I am, believe me.  It’s the truth.  You want Phoebe’s real happiness considered, and that now depends on—­well, I’ll say it out—­on me.  We have reached the point now when you must speak, as you promised to speak, and throw the weight of your influence on my side.  Then, after you’ve had your say, I’ll have mine and put the great question.”